


Perfect Illusion

by Ariana (ariana_paris)



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariana_paris/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: Monica urgently needs a plus one for a school friend's wedding. Since nobody suitable is available, she takes Gilfoyle.
Relationships: Bertram Gilfoyle/Monica Hall
Comments: 15
Kudos: 48
Collections: Silicon Valley Winter Exchange 2k19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IambicKentameter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IambicKentameter/gifts).



> Written for my Silicon Valley Winter Exchange recipient [ IambicKentameter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IambicKentameter) who said “Boy howdy do I love tropes. I love hijinks, farce comedy, fake relationship stuff, and bad, fumbly sex where they get to giggle and be nervous without inhibitions.”
> 
> So here is a fake relationship trope with some hijinks. Bad, fumbly sex just didn't want to happen with these two.
> 
> Title is from the eponymous Lady Gaga song.

“You'll be there, right, Mon?” says Sarah with fake friendliness. God, Monica hates her so much.

“Sure. A winter wedding sounds so original!” explains Monica with fake enthusiasm.

Who the hell has a wedding in winter, in an area which actually gets snow in wintertime, she thinks. Someone who is afraid their groom will get away if they wait until spring?

“Great!” says Sarah. “Shall I put you down for a single room, or will you be bringing a plus one for the weekend?”

Bitch sounds so snide, as if she knows perfectly well that Monica doesn’t have anyone to bring.

“Oh no, I’ll need a double for my boyfriend and me,” says Monica, because even if it’s largely her choice, she’s damned if she’s going to admit that she’s single when Sarah is always such a bitch about it. “With a double bed.”

“Oh, uh, sure. I look forward to meeting—”

“Uh ... Kurt,” says Monica, staring at the Escape from New York poster on her wall. She immediately regrets this, both because she doesn’t know any Kurts and because there’s no way she’d ever date anyone called Kurt anyway.

She hangs up feeling dismayed by the mess she’s gotten herself into. She considers not going, but she knows Sarah will see that as a sign of defeat. On the other hand, they haven’t seen each other in years and Sarah hasn’t friended her on Facebook, let alone on HooliSocial, which Monica’s company now actually owns. So all she has to do is find a “Kurt” for the weekend. How hard can it be?

* * *

Monica’s immediate thought is that she can simply ask someone from the Pied Piper senior management team. They’re all men, mostly single as far as she knows, and probably the closest thing she has to friends. Given that Sarah has only given her three weeks’ notice, she doesn’t really have time to cultivate anyone else’s acquaintance to the point where she can ask them such a monumental favor.

Richard is straight away out of the question. He’s famous enough after his congressional hearing that someone is bound to recognize him, which means they’ll think she’s banging her boss like some ambitious secretary, which is totally not the image she wants to project. Besides, she’s been to enough fundraising galas with Richard to know what a complete dork he is in a social setting, and if Monica is going to go to the trouble of getting herself a fake boyfriend, she might as well aim higher than “acts like a dork in social settings.” And then there’s also the fact that she nearly asked him out once five years ago, and she wouldn’t like him to think she’s inviting him because she wants to revisit that particular lapse of judgement.

Her next thought is Jared. He’s tall and well groomed and could definitely be called Kurt. Or at least, given that his name isn’t even Jared, he might as well be called Kurt. She’s sure he’s exactly the type who would insist on sleeping on the floor in the room they’ll have to share, and he’s got enough experience of the corporate world to be able to lie convincingly to everyone they meet at the wedding. 

But then as she ponders this, enjoying a peaceful cigarette in her new office, stilettoed feet up on her enormous desk, she remembers that Jared and Richard are due to attend a conference together that weekend. She’s fairly sure Jared’s presence isn’t strictly necessary, and that he might therefore be persuaded to help her out; but it seems a shame to deprive him of an opportunity to have Richard all to himself. Besides, Jared’s favorite topic of conversation is Richard, and while their CEO is clearly a fucking genius, Monica is not interested in hearing how wonderful he is for an entire weekend. She decides to let Jared enjoy the conference with Richard instead.

The trouble is, that now leaves her with Dinesh and Gilfoyle. In many ways, she likes Dinesh and Gilfoyle, though mainly when taken together and largely as comic relief. However, the idea that picking one over the other would serve as fodder in their neverending feud amuses her. Mentally comparing the two as potential fake boyfriends, she thinks Dinesh would work best. She remembers how polished he looked and the confident, suave manner he adopted when he was very briefly the CEO of PiperChat a few years ago; a period so brief that nobody at the wedding will remember him. He can probably convincingly play the ideal boyfriend for a few hours, and despite his Pakistani origin, it isn’t impossible that he might be called Kurt. Didn’t Kal Penn play someone called Kurt in _House_?

“Oh. I mean, I totally would,” says Dinesh when she explains the situation to him in her office the next day. He puts on a sad puppy look, his thick but well-groomed eyebrows forming even downward slopes above his eyes. “But I have to go to my cousin Ameena’s wedding in Pakistan that weekend. Well, that weekend, and the two weeks before. I’m returning the day of your friend’s wedding so I can’t come.” 

Damn. Monica sighs with disappointment. And also randomly remembers that Kal Penn’s character on _House_ was called Kutner.

Dinesh gives Monica a thoughtful look. “I guess you could ask Gilfoyle.”

“Gilfoyle?” says Monica with disbelief. “Why the hell would I take Gilfoyle? I need someone who’s going to be a charming, convincing boyfriend. My friend is never going to buy that I’m dating someone who looks like Gilfoyle!”

“True. Erlich once told him he looked like a ferret who gave up on itself six months ago,” says Dinesh with a chuckle.

Monica spreads her hands. “Exactly. And the guy scored a 1.5 on Tracy’s bullshit HR thingy. They said he had an ‘unsettling stare.’ Why the fuck would I pick him as a fake boyfriend?”

She can’t exactly tell Dinesh that another reason for rejecting Gilfoyle is that he once made what she’s pretty sure was a clumsy pass at her. Or that the last time Sarah met one of Monica’s boyfriends, he was a laconic, genius programmer and she’d like Sarah to think she’s moved on to more socially adapted humans at this point in her life.

“Well, you’d pick him because Jared, Richard and I are out of town that weekend, and I think Gilfoyle is free,” says Dinesh. “And since you’re one of, like, five people Gilfoyle has friended on HooliSocial, maybe he’ll want to help you out. Besides, don’t tell him I said this, but sometimes, when he really wants to, he can be charming. And I guess he’d be reasonably good-looking if you scrubbed him up a bit.”

“Gilfoyle? Charming? Good-looking?” repeats Monica in disbelief. 

Dinesh seems perfectly serious and Monica wonders if they’re thinking about the same person. On the other hand, she did see Gilfoyle put on a convincing act when he was social engineering their colleagues, and Dinesh is right about the limited availability among her limited quantity of male friends. Plus it’s not like the guy is completely hideous.

“Doesn’t he already have a girlfriend, Lara or something?” she asks.

“Tara. And yeah, that’s not going to be a problem,” says Dinesh confidently. “They have an open relationship. An open relationship that has been going on for nearly six years now. So he must be doing something right in the boyfriend department!”

* * *

“You asked Dinesh first?” asks Gilfoyle, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. He is lounging in his chair in the corner of the open plan office that he is gradually turning into some kind of geek museum of trashy nerd toys.

“Uh, yes. But only because you already have a girlfriend and I thought it might be awkward for you!” says Monica, hoping he’ll buy the lie. She is after all a very good liar.

“...Okay,” he says neutrally. He sounds so much like John, the server-room dwelling automaton they acquired with Hooli, that Monica seriously considers ringing Sarah to call the whole thing off. “Only problem is, I’ve just signed up to help out with a Menstruatin’ With Satan drive that weekend.”

“’Menstruatin’ With Satan?’” repeats Monica.

“Yes. We’re collecting feminine hygiene products to donate to homeless charities. It’s a partnership between the Church of Satan and the Satanic Temple.”

“Oh. The Satanic People’s Front couldn’t make it?” quips Monica. Gilfoyle gives her his best unsettling stare. “Look, never mi—”

“Of course, given your generous salary, you could just make a large donation and I’ll make sure I’m free to come to that wedding with you.”

“Well, I totally would, but I use all the products I buy for myself,” explains Monica.

Gilfoyle stares at her. Monica considers the prospect of turning up alone at the wedding or, even worse, admiring defeat and canceling her attendance altogether. Maybe having a type when it comes to boyfriends isn’t completely a bad thing? If anything, the fact that Gilfoyle is kind of like the last boyfriend Sarah met will make her more likely to believe Gilfoyle is Monica’s current boyfriend.

“Okay, fine,” she says. “Will you do it if I make a large donation? Please?”

Gilfoyle gives her a sinister smile.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you sure your girlfriend doesn’t mind you doing this?” asks Monica when they’re on the plane a couple of weeks later.

“Yes. I told her what I was doing and she said it was a swee— a good thing to do for a friend.”

“Tell her I appreciate the loan,” says Monica, amused by his reluctance to admit that his girlfriend thinks he’s sweet.

“Why is it so important for you to have a fake boyfriend called ‘Kurt’ anyway?”

“Ugh, it’s so dumb,” admits Monica. “But Sarah was one of those people I hated in highschool. I mean we were best friends but you know, I was popular and attractive and I totally had boyfriends, but she was just always… better. Always dating the top quarterback and rubbing my face in it, asking me where my boyfriend was when she was hanging off this guy’s arm at the Prom. I mean, I had a date and he was totally going to come. He just happened to get chicken pox that week. Fucking humiliating, going alone to the Prom. I nearly invited one of the greasy geeks with glasses to go with me, but then I thought ‘fuck it, I’m a strong independent woman, I don’t need a Prom date.’ And Sarah just pointed me out to everyone and was so mock concerned about me. Fucking bitch.”

“I see,” says Gilfoyle slowly. “So this time, you decided to take the greasy geek with glasses instead of going alone.”

“Uh—” starts Monica, but Gilfoyle is staring at her with his magnified brown eyes and she loses her train of thought.

“At least in our thirties, some of us geeks are good earners,” he says lightly, lifting the paperback he’s been reading.

Monica stares at the front cover and wonders what “Cryptonomicom” means, and also what she’s let herself in for, asking Gilfoyle of all people to be her date.

* * *

“Okay. I wasn’t expecting this,” says Gilfoyle, looking at the king-sized bed. 

They’ve finally reached the hotel after an eventful evening. Their flight was delayed by snow or a flock of birds or an Act of God or whatever the fuck the pilot said it was on the announcement. Then they had to wait nearly an hour to get an Uber whose driver got so lost in the snowy countryside that Monica is certain they drove past the airport another three times before getting on the right road. It’s now ten p.m., she’s hungry and all she wants is to eat and crawl into bed.

“Well, you know. We’re a couple, right?” she says with a tired shrug.

“So I see,” says Gilfoyle, a twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes. “If I’d known we’d be bunking together, I’d have bought some pajamas. At least it’s a big bed.”

Monica shakes her head. “Oh, no. You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“It’s a king-sized bed,” says Gilfoyle in a monotone. “I think we’ll both fit.”

He throws his plastic bag into a corner—the only other item of luggage he has brought is his laptop bag so Monica assumes his clothes are in the plastic one—and then sits on the bed to pull off his boots. Monica stares in disbelief as he removes his socks and flannel. When he stands up, apparently about to undo his jeans, she raises her hand.

“What the fuck are you doing, Gilfoyle?”

“Getting more comfortable.” When Monica raises her eyebrows at him, he sighs. “Okay. Look, in case it’s not obvious, I know you didn’t invite me here to seduce me, Monica. We’ll pretend to be a couple tomorrow, but I know the score. We’re work colleagues and I’m doing you a favor. I won’t touch you or do anything creepy when we’re alone.”

“Right. No, I know that!” she says.

It didn’t actually occur to her that he might think she’s invited him because she wants him. And he’s just said that he doesn’t think that, so that’s fine. And that they’re just work colleagues, which presumably means he doesn’t want her either. Which is more of a surprise, because why wouldn’t he?

“So what’s the problem?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

She doesn’t want to say that she’s actually more worried about him snoring and taking up all the space with his big loosely-muscled arms. “Just—I don’t normally sleep with people. I mean, I totally sleep with guys. Lots of really hot guys. But, you know, for sex, not actual sleeping, so uh—”

“Oh, we can have sex if it makes you more comfortable,” suggests Gilfoyle sarcastically. “Or we can order room service and drain the minibar, and then get some sleep in the same bed like a pair of fucking adults before we convince your friend we’re a couple tomorrow.”

* * *

“Tell me about Tara,” says Monica, throwing her miniature bottle of whisky on the floor.

Gilfoyle downs the last of his little bottle of rum. He half-shrugs. “She’s okay.”

He removed his jeans while she was changing in the bathroom, but replaced them with a pair of sweatpants so he’s entirely presentable. They ordered pizza, but now that’s eaten, they’ve started on the minibar. 

Monica is lying prone on the bed in her pajamas, head resting on her folded arms, and swinging her legs up in the air like a child.

“C’mon, you gotta at least have a picture on your phone!” she coaxes.

Gilfoyle picks up his phone from the shelf on his side of the bed—he’s adopted the left-hand side for “religious reasons”—and flicks through the pictures.

“Here you go.”

He shows her a picture of a cute brunette with large eyes. Monica observes her ample cleavage with envy and then looks up at the unkempt, bearded nerd that this woman has apparently chosen for a boyfriend.

“She’s very pretty,” she says politely.

“Yeah. Smoking hot,” says Gilfoyle with some of the enthusiasm he normally reserves for incomprehensible technical discussions and elaborate pranks on Dinesh. “I’ll be flying over to Boston to see her next month.”

“You haven’t considered asking her to move over now you have your own place?”

“Nah, she’s got all her family over there. She doesn’t want to move to California.” He takes the phone back and looks at the picture of Tara. “We’ve never spent much time together. I guess that’s what makes it work. She sees other guys over there too.” He smiles wryly. “I think she prefers it if I’m not around too much.” 

When people tell her they’re poly or in an open relationship, Monica usually assumes it’s the guy’s idea, and that the girl is just going along with it to maintain the relationship. She wonders if that’s the case here. It’s hard to imagine Gilfoyle out picking up chicks in bars or having wild threesomes—or having sex at all, really. But then she’s only ever seen him at work or at work-related parties. Maybe he has a whole other social life she knows nothing about. She pulls a pillow over and lays her head on it.

“Oh, right. Dinesh said it was an open relationship. Do you tell each other all about your other partners?” she asks drowsily.

“I do. She—mostly does. I guess I don’t know what she doesn’t tell me.” 

He’s speaking in his normal voice as if this is totally normal, but Monica thinks he sounds angry. And since anger is the only emotion men generally feel okay to express, she assumes that means he’s actually sad.

“Oh man, that sucks,” says Monica with sympathy. “Why don’t you just dump her?”

“Because deceit is human nature and why abandon what we have in the name of what might be?” He gives her a sly smile. “Besides, she tells me enough. Sends me pictures and videos too.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you’re still together after all these years,” says Monica, accepting the more light-hearted direction their conversation has taken. “You’re a voyeur and she’s an exhibitionist.”

“Hmm, little more complicated than that, but basically,” says Gilfoyle. He pauses and then adds, “It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who is there for you. She’s very kind.”

Monica closes her eyes. “What, Gilfoyle the stoic needs someone ‘kind’ to talk to?”

“Fuck you,” he responds good-naturedly.

“Back at yah,” says Monica with a chuckle. She relaxes on her pillow. “I’ve never cheated on anyone. Too much trouble.”

She doesn’t hear what Gilfoyle says as she drifts off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

When Monica wakes up the next morning, she hears the shower running in the bathroom. So Gilfoyle does know how to shower, she thinks wryly. She’s noticed in the past that he isn’t exactly particular about his personal hygiene.

They had a peaceful night. Monica had to poke Gilfoyle once because he started snoring, but the incident was brief enough that she went straight back to sleep, and he stayed on his side of the bed all night. It occurs to Monica that he’s the first man she’s ever slept with who was neither her brother nor a lover.

He comes out of the bathroom shortly after she wakes up, wearing only his glasses and a large hotel towel wrapped around his waist.

“Oh hey, you’re awake.” He jerks his head toward the bathroom. “All yours.”

“Okay, in a minute. Still waking up.”

As Gilfoyle pulls out his clothes for the day from the plastic bag, Monica stares at his pale, hairy chest. He isn’t as weedy or overweight as most software engineers she’s seen, but equally neither slim nor muscular. His long hair is wet and wavier than usual, combed back to reveal the start of a widow’s peak and what she’s pretty certain are strands of grey at his temples. She also notices the Satanic tattoos on his right arm and left shoulder; Dinesh has described them loudly to everyone in the office on several occasions so she’s not surprised to see them, but they’re simpler and cruder than she was expecting.

When he notices her looking at him, Gilfoyle gives her a sardonic smile.

“I can take the towel off if you want to see the rest,” he says in his slow, droll voice. “Except I stroked one out while I was in the shower so you’ll have to wait ten minutes if you want something worth looking at.”

His deadpan delivery makes it plain that this is a joke, so Monica looks him over with exaggerated disdain.

“Hmm, no thanks, I think I’ll use my imagination,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Also: ten minutes? Really?”

She’s never met a guy who was ready to go again in ten minutes. Gilfoyle gives her a sheepish smile. 

“Okay. Maybe twenty minutes. Half an hour, tops,” he concedes.

Monica chuckles and gets her toiletry bag out of her suitcase. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Now put some clothes on, Gilfoyle. You look like an extra from _Deep Throat_.”

* * *

By the time Monica comes out of the bathroom after her own shower, Gilfoyle looks as if he’s already dressed for the wedding. He’s wearing the same black jeans he traveled in, but with a dark grey shirt she hasn't seen him in before. He has evidently used the hair dryer in the room because his brown hair is soft and fluffy, slightly feathered around his even features. The top button of his shirt is undone, revealing a little chest hair.

“Really rolling with the 70s look, there, Gilfoyle,” says Monica with amusement, though there’s something off about his appearance that bothers her.

“...Okay. I’m going down to grab breakfast.” He notices that she’s only wearing a bathrobe. “I guess you can come like that if you like, but you might want to put some clothes on.”

Monica is staring at him, trying to work out what the fuck is wrong with his face. Gilfoyle suddenly rolls his surprisingly smaller-looking eyes.

“Oh. I thought ‘Kurt’ maybe doesn’t wear glasses. They’re 24-hour contacts, so I can sleep in them if I pass out or something,” he explains. When Monica continues to stare, he folds his arms and looks mildly irritated. “Of course, I can take the contacts out if you prefer me with the glasses.” He glances at himself in the mirror opposite the bed. “I would argue that I look better with glasses anyway.”

On the one hand, he’s right that she wouldn’t date someone who wears the kind of beer-bottle glasses Gilfoyle normally sports. But on the other hand, he looks fucking weird without them. His eyes are watery and red, and the left eyebrow is lower than the right one, giving him a slightly lopsided appearance. It also doesn’t help that he still has the imprint of nose pads on the bridge of his nose.

“Uh, no, the contacts are fine,” she says unconvincingly. “You’re right. ‘Kurt’ doesn’t wear glasses. You just look—”

“Different,” he states in a monotone.

“—Uncomfortable. Your eyes. But it’s fine. You look...less geeky. And definitely not greasy, so it’s all great,” she says. “I’ll be with you in a minute. You go ahead. But just—don’t talk to anyone, okay?”

“Oh don’t worry,” he says, opening the door. “If anyone talks to me, I’ll just use my natural charm.”

“No. Just. Seriously, Gilfoyle!”

* * *

When Monica comes down for breakfast, wearing casual clothes—she’ll change for the wedding a little later—she finds Gilfoyle sitting at a table with fucking Sarah of all people. Monica would expect a bride to be getting prepared at this time, but maybe Sarah wants to personally greet all her guests at breakfast to get that little bit of extra attention before the wedding. 

Gilfoyle is smiling and nodding at whatever the bitch is saying to him. It’s even freakier than his experiment in social engineering. Monica stares at him, shocked at how the combination of Gilfoyle’s changed appearance and his uncharacteristically pleasant expression make him look like a different person. A person she might even consider dating if that was the only aspect of him she’d ever seen. Dinesh is right after all; Gilfoyle isn’t bad looking when he scrubs up, despite the gap in his front teeth and the wonky eyebrows.

“Monica! Hey! Yoo-hoo!”

Great. Sarah has spotted her and is waving. So naturally, everyone in the restaurant, and in particular Gilfoyle, is now looking and expecting her to go over and join them.

“I’ve been talking to Kurt,” says Sarah with enthusiasm. “You didn’t tell me he was such a charmer!”

“Hey, babe.” Gilfoyle’s smirk clearly says ‘I told you so.’

Monica forces herself to smile sweetly. “Well, you know. I wouldn’t have brought him if I didn’t think he would behave.”

“She has me well trained.” 

Gilfoyle fixes Monica with his best unsettling gaze and there’s a lascivious undertone to his simple statement that makes Monica momentarily lose her train of thought.

“Uh, yeah, so we’re looking forward to the wedding this afternoon!” she manages to get out.

“It’s _Frozen_ -themed,” gushes Sarah. “I’ll be dressed as Elsa and all my bridesmaids are dressed like Anna!”

“Let me guess, the bridegroom is coming as Olaf the Snowman?” asks Gilfoyle, completely deadpan.

“What? No, he’s just in a suit. I mean, we’re adults, we’re not going _overboard_ ,” says Sarah with a roll of her eyes. “Well, I better go get ready. It’s going to be _amazing_!”

With that, Sarah flits off toward the elevator, though not before stopping three times to talk to other people.

“I’m no expert on relationships but I give that marriage a few months. One year, tops,” said Gilfoyle.

“Really?” Monica leans forward, eager to hear about her erstwhile rival’s disaster in the making.

“I talked to her for ten minutes during which I learned that she owns a Tesla and is obsessed with money and being better, richer or prettier than other people.” Gilfoyle sips his coffee. “It’s a shame Dinesh couldn’t make it. They’re soulmates.”

“And is her husband making her better, richer or prettier than anyone else?”

“Richer, I expect. I don’t think she mentioned his name once. For all I know, maybe he already looks like Olaf.”

“I didn’t have you down as a fan of _Frozen_ ,” says Monica with amusement.

Gilfoyle pauses for a split second, eyes wide as if he let that slip. Then he gives her a rueful smile. “I have nieces.”

“My niece Dakota was into _Frozen_ too, when it first came out. That was when she was younger and still cute, before she turned into the teenage bitch from hell.”

“Sounds like my kind of teenager,” says Gilfoyle neutrally. “My nieces are still young. We’ll see if they turn out as well as yours when they’re older.”

Monica grins at the quip, though her smile fades when she sees Sarah finally get in the elevator with a couple of girls who are presumably her bridesmaids. 

“What did you tell Sarah about us?” she asks warily. “Anything I need to know, in case she asks about it?”

“Practically nothing. I told her my name is Kurt, I’m Canadian and I’m a Systems Architect. As usual at that point, her eyes glazed over and she started telling me about her car.” He smirks at Monica. “She was definitely flirting with me before that, though, so good call on the contacts. If I’d been interested, I might have told her I was a hairdresser.”

“A hairdresser?”

“Yes, when you’re in tech, you soon learn that the best way to a woman’s bed is a change of profession.”

“But why a hair—Look, never mind. No offense, but I doubt the flirting was anything personal,” says Monica with a dismissive wave of her hand. “She was probably just flirting with you to get back at me. She was a total bitch when my marriage was annulled. All full of fake sympathy and telling everyone about how she’d been at the wedding and what a shame I never saw it coming.”

“Times like this make me really glad I don’t have friends,” says Gilfoyle, finishing off his coffee. “If you like, maybe I can ruin her wedding by banging her while you make sure the groom hears about it?” 

“You would do that for me?” asks Monica, flattered.

“No. I’d do it because I like getting laid and your friend Elsa the Snow Bride isn’t completely hideous,” he says with a gap-toothed grin. “But I guess you might prefer it if everyone at this wedding didn’t find out that your boyfriend ‘Kurt’ cheated on you with the bride.”

“Oh. Good point.”

Gilfoyle reaches across the table to hold her hand in a boyfriend kind of way. “Don‘t worry. I‘m sure something will fuck up their marriage eventually. Then you‘ll be even.”


	4. Chapter 4

“She wasn't kidding about _Frozen_ ,” whispers Monica later when they're in the hotel ballroom where the wedding ceremony is taking place.

There are glitter snowflakes and fake icicles everywhere, and arches lined with blue flowers and frosted branches down the aisle between the seats. Monica notices that the bar and buffet are decorated with fake ice sculptures and bouquets of snowflakes. There are even gold, silver and blue baubles hanging from the ceiling.

“This place looks like someone raided the leftover Christmas decorations and just removed all the Santa Clauses and reindeer,” she says.

“Is that why you came as an Amazon.com Christmas gift bag?” asks Gilfoyle.

Monica looks down at her lamé evening dress with the stylish organza overskirt. She chose it because it fades from white to silver for a wintry look, and because it’s a perfect shape to emphasize her slim frame. But now he’s pointed it out, its construction does bear a very faint resemblance to Amazon’s organza gift bags.

She glances at Gilfoyle with his open-necked shirt, carefully groomed beard and almost feathered hair.

“If I’d known I was going with Jesus Christ Superstar, I’d have come as fucking Mary Magdalene,” she hisses.

Gilfoyle smirks at her and takes her hand as if to say she’s stuck with him. She looks around as the music starts up and the groom takes his place. At least the groom is wearing an ordinary suit, but the bride and her attendants look like extras from _Frozen on Ice_. A little Anna bridesmaid is throwing snow-like confetti behind Sarah while a larger Anna tries to make her stop.

Perhaps conscious of his role in all of this, Gilfoyle continues to hold Monica’s hand throughout the ceremony. It feels kind of nice, sitting at the wedding holding hands with a handsome man; now that Monica has gotten used to the look of Gilfoyle’s face without glasses, and his almond-shaped eyes have stopped reacting to the contacts and lost their redness, she can appreciate that he’s pretty good-looking. Despite the slight Seventies throwback look.

“What kind of theme would you have for your wedding?” Monica asks him when the ceremony is over and the guests are invited to get drinks at the bar while the hotel staff set up the tables for the reception. “Or wait, do Satanists even believe in marriage?”

“As an institution for the shared ownership of property and the legitimization of children? No. We don’t consider that children are inferior if their father doesn’t own their mother. But as a public declaration of love between two people, sure.”

It’s kind of weird to hear Gilfoyle talking about love in his monotone voice. Monica wonders if he’s in love with Tara, but decides that’s too personal a question to ask.

“Right, so you would have a Satanist wedding?” she asks instead.

“In the unlikely event that I did want to get married,” says Gilfoyle slowly, “I guess my future wife would have a say in what we do. There’s no mandatory ritual in Satanism, but the Satanic wedding laid out by Magus Gilmore would be okay if she wanted to do that. I definitely wouldn’t go for something like this.” He waves his hand at a fake ice sculpture. “A quick civil ceremony followed by a honeymoon somewhere nice would do fine.”

“Yeah, I’d probably go for that too,” agrees Monica. “Fuck fancy themed weddings.”

Gilfoyle leans on the high table beside them. “What did you do last time?”

“Oh, I had a Catholic Wedding-themed wedding.” Monica sighs. “It was a shit show. Well, no. The wedding was perfect. The marriage was a shit show. We didn’t even make it back from the honeymoon before we split up.”

“He cheated on you,” states Gilfoyle.

“How did you—” starts Monica before shaking her head. “Okay, yes. Lucky guess.”

“You said you never cheated on anyone, and infidelity is the most common cause of divorce, so an educated guess.” Gilfoyle pauses and sips his champagne. He gives Monica what looks like a genuinely tender smile. The guy is a surprisingly good actor. “You deserve better.”

Monica returns his smile. “Yeah. Or at least the best a jumbo box of sanitary towels and tampons can buy.”

“You got a good deal,” says Gilfoyle gravely. He indicates himself with a sweep of his hand. “But just think what a donation of two jumbo boxes might have gotten you.” He nods towards the tables set up around them. “Here we go. I think we’re going to get fed.”

* * *

If Monica was ever in any doubt about Sarah’s rivalry for her, the people seated at their table for the reception dinner would have confirmed it. Monica doesn’t find out how Sarah has gotten to know a podiatrist from Tulsa and her husband, whose job is so dull that Monica instantly forgets it, but she sure as hell remembers Trisha, who was in Monica and Sarah’s posse back in the day. Trisha’s lawyer husband and insufferable son are also with them.

“You remember Tad, don’t you, Monica dear?” says Trisha with fake friendliness as soon as the wedding toasts are done. She squeezes her husband’s hand, to her husband’s visible surprise. “He was my date for _your_ wedding. In fact, Tad Junior was conceived that night! Just shows what good can sometimes come out of tragedy.”

“Uh, sure. Good to see you again, Tad,” says Monica, who just loves being reminded of her own wedding.

Tad Junior is at that moment wearing his Bishop’s hat-folded napkin on his head and banging his plate loudly with his fork, demanding his food, so she questions the notion that he’s such a good thing. 

“Congratulations,” says Gilfoyle flatly. “I guess it’s true when they say weddings are a great place to get laid. Usually best to use a condom, though.”

Tad Junior is still banging his plate. Gilfoyle gives him one of his stares; the child stares back for a moment and then puts his fork down. Tad Senior looks from Gilfoyle to Tad Junior and there’s an awkward silence while he contemplates how his life might have gone had he used a condom.

“Tad is going to be made associate partner at his law firm this year. And what do you do for a living, Kurt?” asks Trisha a little aggressively.

“I’m the Chief Systems Architect at a successful Silicon Valley startup. This may mean nothing to you, but you have a phone so I imagine you’re familiar with the Internet. I’m one of the people who knows how to keep those ones and zeros flowing so you can look up the latest nail fashions on Pinterest and bitch about your husband on Facebook.” He seems about to launch into a rant, but then he pauses and takes Monica’s hand. “But I’m nowhere near as successful as our Chief Financial Officer here, the former senior partner at Bream- _Hall_ Venture Capital. She earns about 50% more than I do.”

He turns to give her such a look of undisguised admiration that Monica’s heart misses a beat. She smiles at him and he smiles back, his warm hand squeezing hers. Monica lets go, feeling flustered, when the waiters start bringing in the food.

* * *

After the meal, the guests are ushered back to the bar area to have drinks while part of the ballroom is cleared for the evening disco.

“Thank you for what you said to Trisha earlier,” says Monica when Gilfoyle brings her a glass of champagne. “She was always a status-obsessed bitch, even when we were friends back in highschool.”

“You should have kept better company in highschool,” comments Gilfoyle.

“Well, gotta keep up with the competition. You know how it goes when you’re popular.”

“Not really, no,” he says with wry amusement. “Kids in Canadian highschools might be less status-obsessed than Americans, but there’s still a clear pecking order. Let’s just say I wasn’t at the top of it.” He pauses. “More like the lower tier with the fat guy and the kid with learning difficulties.”

Monica stares at him. “Oh. I thought—I don’t know, I imagined you as one of the cool kids. You know, the suave loner who wears a leather jacket and smokes in the restrooms at break time.”

“A leather jacket?” Gilfoyle smiles. “So in this fantasy of my highschool life, I’m the Fonz?”

“More like the Gilf,” says Monica with a grin. “But yeah, you were the cool loner in Erlich’s incubator, so I guess I assumed you were always like that.”

Gilfoyle leans in a little closer. “And would The Gilf ever get to date a popular Mean Girl like you?”

“If she’s lucky,” says Monica softly, because she does think Gilfoyle is cool and he’s looking pretty handsome without his glasses. Also she might be a little lightheaded from the champagne.

“I did nearly make out with a cheerleader once,” he says in a low voice. “I think she felt sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” says Monica.

“It’s okay. I made up for it later.” 

Despite his confident tone, his expression softens and his big brown eyes look down at her lips. Monica wonders if he wants to make out with her. He did say he was in an open relationship with his girlfriend so maybe that’s okay. 

The DJ interrupts them with the announcement that the happy couple are about to have their first dance.

“Wanna bet it’s going to be Let It Go?” mutters Gilfoyle.


	5. Chapter 5

The first dance is indeed Let It Go, but the DJ soon moves on to more conventional wedding disco fare. Monica is not the least bit surprised when Gilfoyle lets her go and dance on her own, preferring to stay on the sidelines to drink his glass of champagne. Most of the people on the dancefloor are women anyway.

She turns and smiles at him at regular intervals, though, both because she wants to make sure he isn’t talking to anyone else—it would kind of defeat the purpose of this whole thing if her fake boyfriend ‘cheated’ on her—and because, well, she kind of likes looking at him. And maybe also, she kind of likes the way he’s looking at her. Every time she turns toward him, he’s watching her, his dark eyes narrowed and a smile curving his lips. He puts his glass down on a nearby table and leans against one of the columns, leering at her through the sparse crowd.

The third time she finds him looking, she holds his gaze as she dances, as if she’s doing it for his benefit. His smile fades, lips parting in his thick beard, and his dark gaze intensifies, running over her sparkle-clad body. There’s probably something sexist about her dancing for him, but Monica doesn’t care; she has Gilfoyle’s entire attention and it feels great.

When ABBA’s Dancing Queen starts up, the mob on the dance floor gets denser and Monica comes closer to Gilfoyle. She takes his hand and gives it a little tug. He shakes his head; the music is too loud for conversation, so she pouts and takes his other hand, pulling slightly harder. This earns her a typical Gilfoyle look of mild irritation, but he follows her into the crowd and—Monica really wishes she was filming this—starts dancing.

He’s no Patrick Swayze, but he moves his hips reasonably in time with the music, and more importantly, he’s here on the dancefloor with her. After a couple of songs, Monica wraps her arms around his neck and dances up against him. As the song changes to something upbeat that Monica doesn’t recognize, Gilfoyle’s hands slip around her waist and he pulls her close. His breath smells of champagne and his beard of hotel shampoo. Caught up in the moment, Monica presses her lips to his.

Gilfoyle doesn’t react, staring at her with surprise when she draws back. Monica is disappointed, because the dancing has turned her on, and to be honest, she’s more than just a little bit attracted to Gilfoyle right now. But maybe the “open relationship” isn’t actually all that open; maybe he needs to ask for Tara’s permission or something. And as unlikely as that might be, maybe he isn’t attracted to her. 

Never mind. They’ve done enough hand-holding to convince Sarah they’re a couple, so they’ve achieved Monica’s main goal for the day. Since pulling away might suggest something is wrong, she smiles and continues to dance, pressing her body up against his. With their hips close together, she can tell at least one part of this stoic asshole is attracted to her.

When the next song starts, Gilfoyle mumbles something about needing a drink and Monica takes the opportunity to go to the bathroom. Sarah is there, retouching her makeup in the mirror.

“Hey, Monica! How’s it going?”

She sounds drunk. Monica smiles sweetly. “It’s going great.”

“Your boyfriend is sweet,” says Sarah with a sigh. “He reminds me of that guy you were dating before, the programmer, except he’s a lot funnier. He asked me if I was marrying Warren for his money!” She laughs lightly. “Then he said he was dating you because you earn more than he does. But I can tell he’s really in love with you. Just the way he looks at you gives it away. You’re always so lucky, Monica.”

“I’m always so lucky?” Monica makes a face. “You were at my wedding, right?”

“I know, but it was obvious he wasn’t the one for you. But you got that gorgeous wedding and then you didn’t have to have the marriage afterwards.” Sarah sighs. “I’ve signed a prenup. Have to stay with him at least two years before I get anything in a divorce settlement. But we get on great and he’s actually really good in bed. And you should see the house we’re buying in Malibu. It’s amazing. You’ll have to come over with Kurt. So I think we’ll probably stay together a lot longer than that.”

“You’re literally just marrying him for the money,” says Monica with amazement.

“Of course. I’m not clever like you. I do okay and I enjoy my job in Marketing, but I’ll never be a C-level anything. And I’m not getting any younger!” Sarah gives her a bright smile. “People like you have it all. You have the brains and the great job and a hot boyfriend who is totally into you. People like me have to compromise.”

Monica is so surprised that she’s almost tempted to admit she only has the great job. That the hot boyfriend is actually a coworker who is only into her because he’s drunk too much champagne and she’s been not so subtly rubbing his crotch half the evening.

But then one of the bridesmaids comes in and Monica remembers she needs to pee, so she lets her friend continue to believe that she’s the lucky one.

* * *

When Monica returns to the dancefloor, there’s no sign of Gilfoyle. She fears for a moment that he might have left, scared off by her trying to make out with him, but then she spots him outside having a cigarette. He’s also talking to a young black woman who is far too attractive for Monica’s liking. They’re huddling in the warmth of an outdoor heater the hotel has provided for the diehard nicotine addicts who venture out into the snow for their fix, and seem to be engaged in an intense conversation.

“Hey, there you are, honey,” says Monica, coming out to join them.

She’s not sure what term of endearment she’d use if she was really dating Gilfoyle, and doesn’t want to start calling him Kurt because that’s just plain weird. But her mom always called her dad “honey,” so presumably that will do.

“Hi, babe,” he answers easily. Monica thinks how lucky she is that they’re both such accomplished, unscrupulous liars. “Monica, this is Chantelle. Chantelle, this is my girlfriend Monica. Chantelle is a software engineer.”

“Oh, really?” says Monica in a tone that hopefully communicates how uninterested she is in the woman’s profession.

She slips her arm around Gilfoyle’s waist and then takes his cigarette, inhaling a long drag before handing it back. Though Chantelle can’t see it, Monica also pats Gilfoyle’s ass because that’s something she’s always done with her boyfriends. Gilfoyle gives a satisfyingly audible gasp of surprise.

Chantelle takes the hint and extinguishes her own cigarette before heading back inside. Gilfoyle watches her go with a hint of amusement in his dark eyes.

“I take it ‘Kurt’ isn’t allowed to talk to other women without a chaperone?” he says flatly.

“Not when he’s here to show everyone how lucky I am. Sarah is apparently green with envy because I have a great job and you as a boyfriend.”

“I _am_ a very good boyfriend,” says Gilfoyle without a hint of sarcasm. He looks at her curiously. “Though why am I called Kurt, exactly?”

“Oh, uh. Just the first name that came to mind. I have this, uh, poster. _Escape From New York._ ” She gestures vaguely.

“Right. You planned to bring Kurt Russell, but he wasn’t available?” Gilfoyle takes a slow drag from the cigarette. “I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be something to do with Kurt Vonnegut.”

“No. But I do know who that is,” adds Monica, in case he thinks she doesn’t know cool sci-fi writers whose books she hasn’t read.

“I guess I’d have preferred Kurt Cobain,” continues Gilfoyle. 

“Oh. Kurt Cobain. So that’s where you got your grunge look from.”

Gilfoyle just gives her an amused look. Monica snuggles closer to him and thinks about making him go back to the dancefloor, but he disengages himself from her embrace and hands her the cigarette.

“Anyway, now your friend is suitably impressed, I have work to do,” he says quietly. “I should go back to the room.”

“Oh no, you can’t,” says Monica immediately. “Don’t you know it’s rude to leave the wedding reception before the bride and groom? Come on, just a couple more dances and then I’ll let you go, promise.”

“I think we’ve done enough dancing,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t think we need to do any more. We still have to work together on Monday.”

Monica stares at him a moment and then smiles slyly. “Wait. Are you embarrassed? Because of the boner?”

“No,” he says, and though his monotone voice sounds normal, his body language speaks to the truth of her assumption. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction to someone writhing against you like you’re a pole they want to climb.”

“Well, a bit more writhing to seal the deal, and I promise I’ll let you get back to your beloved laptop.” Monica puts out the cigarette and takes his hand. “C’mon, I promise I won’t tell anyone at work that you’re human after all.”


	6. Chapter 6

Gilfoyle dances a bit more stiffly than he did before, but at least he’s agreed to dance with her, so she keeps her hips away from his this time. She finds the whole idea of the normally cool, unflappable Gilfoyle having a boner fucking hilarious—and not a little flattering, too—but he’s also a work colleague she respects and there’s no need to be cruel. 

Sarah and Warren are dancing nearby. Whatever the reasons for their marriage, they seem to like each other well enough to be making out like teenagers at the Prom. God, Monica remembers being consumed with envy at the other teenagers making out at her Prom.

Monica catches Gilfoyle’s eye and jerks her head at the happy couple. Gilfoyle’s discomfort notwithstanding, he _is_ here to obliterate that humiliating Prom experience for her after all. He follows her gesture and seems to think for a moment before he smiles. Without interrupting his artless dancing, he pulls Monica up against him. She tries to convince herself that the thrill she feels is just due to the champagne.

Gilfoyle’s mustache tickles Monica’s upper lip just before their mouths meet. It’s a soft tentative kiss and Monica reciprocates, pressing her lips to his, angling her head so her prominent nose doesn’t collide with his. Gilfoyle opens his mouth and they deepen the kiss, still moving slowly to the music.

It’s perfect. The music and her light inebriation combine with the kiss to make Monica feel pleasantly woozy and very turned on. Gilfoyle is just the right height, tall enough to arouse some primeval instinct or social conditioning bullshit that makes Monica feel satisfyingly feminine, but still close enough to her own height to make the kiss easy and comfortable. She runs her hand up to the nape of his neck, into his long soft hair; he hums with appreciation into her mouth and tightens his embrace. Oh, he’s definitely into her right now, all that dumb robotic thing fading away in the face of his base human desires.

The current song ends and a penny whistle rings across the room. Their kiss continues until the song starts properly, when Gilfoyle suddenly steps away from Monica, eyes wide as if he’s just realized what they’re doing.

“Fuck this,” he says. “I’m going upstairs to my laptop.”

Monica follows him off the dancefloor and out into the lobby. Given his open relationship with Tara and the enthusiastic tongue hockey, she has a good idea what’s bothering him, and that’s hilarious too.

“What’s wrong? Alanis Morissette and Avril Lavigne are okay but Celine Dion is a step too far?” she says with a laugh.

“I have my limits,” he says deadpan, though there’s a twinkle of amusement in his brown eyes. “Anyway, you’re super hot and I love you, but I told you, I have work to do. Enjoy the dancing.”

There are wedding guests milling around in the lobby, so that’s probably why he says that and gives her a quick kiss before heading toward the elevator. 

Monica is trying to decide if she should follow him when her phone rings. She rolls her eyes when she sees the name.

“This better be important, Richard!” she snaps, observing Gilfoyle’s jeans-clad ass as he disappears into the elevator.

All she hears is heavy breathing and some grunting. “Richard? Are you ill? Or is this your idea of a booty call?”

There’s rustling and thumping as someone manipulates the phone.

“Oh, uh, Monica, hi,” says Jared breathlessly. “I’m sorry, I think the phone just happened to be on the bed and then Richard and I were, well, just—”

“Jared, I really don’t want to know,” says Monica, wrinkling her nose.

“Although actually, now we have you on the line, Monica, there’s something we need to run past you—”

* * *

When Monica comes up to the room a little later, she makes sure to open the door noisily and walks in slowly. She doesn’t think Gilfoyle would be the type to deal with that boner on the bed they’re sharing, but on the other hand, she doesn’t know that for sure. She grew up with a brother so the grossness of men never surprises her.

In fact, Gilfoyle has changed into his sweatpants and T-shirt, and is innocently using his laptop on the bed by the light of the bedside lamp. He’s still wearing his contacts and looks up at her with big brown eyes.

“I thought you were going back to dance,” he comments.

“Nah, my feet are killing me.” Monica kicks off her high heels.

Gilfoyle gives her shoes a cursory glance. “I’d tell you you’d look just as attractive in Doc Martens, but I guess you don’t wear stilettos to please me.”

“Damn right I don’t,” she agrees. “You or anyone else.”

“You looked great tonight.” 

He says that neutrally, his eyes on his screen, a statement of fact that doesn’t come off creepy or like he’s hitting on her at all. That’s kind of disappointing after the makeout session, but Monica can see his point; they’re work colleagues, he’s doing her a favor. It’s fine. Might as well talk about work, then.

“Thanks.” She puts her phone down on the desk. “Actually, I was talking to Jared. Richard butt-dialled me like a moron from their hotel room.”

“Oh? Are they pretending to be a couple so Richard can get back at a highschool rival too?” asks Gilfoyle, deadpan.

“Fuck knows.” Monica makes a face at him. “Wait, why am I Richard in that scenario? You’re the coder. I’m obviously Jared. You know, with the actual business skills?”

“You seriously want to be Jared with me as Richard?” Gilfoyle narrows his eyes at her with clear amusement. “I didn’t know you liked me that much. Still, that would explain the invitation and the making out on the dancefloor.”

“Fuck you,” says Monica with a chuckle, removing her earrings.

“Anytime.” He gives her a rare grin. “Why don’t you go get changed and come to bed? If we go to sleep now, we might be up early enough to get breakfast!”

* * *

Monica goes into the bathroom to change out of her dress. She starts to struggle with the zipper at the back, but then a small bottle by the sink catches her eye, and she picks it up. Its label proclaims it to be beard oil, which she didn’t even know was a thing, let alone a thing Gilfoyle might use. She notices that Gilfoyle’s toothbrush is wet. Monica pauses, thinking over the evening that’s just gone and the night to come, and returns to the bedroom.

Gilfoyle is still on the bed with his laptop. He looks up with mild curiosity when she reappears still in her evening dress.

“You decided to trial lamé and organza as nightwear?” he asks.

“Actually, I need help with the zipper,” she says, gesturing toward her back with a roll of her eyes.

“Sure.”

He puts the laptop down on the bedside shelf and Monica turns her back to him. She can’t see his face directly but she sees his reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. He pulls the zipper down slowly, his eyes following the movement with clear interest. Monica doesn’t let the dress fall off, keeping the straps up with a slight spread of her arms.

“Can you do the necklace too?” she asks innocently.

He fumbles with the tiny clasp; his face in the mirror is a portrait of concentration, brow furrowed and tongue touching his upper lip. His fingers brush her neck and upper chest as he lowers the undone necklace into her hands. She puts it down on the desk under the mirror. The movement lets one strap slide down her arm, exposing part of her bra, and she makes no effort to put it back. She can see through the mirror that Gilfoyle is standing very close behind her, his heated gaze focused on her half-naked back.

“You wanna keep going?” she asks.

“Hell yeah,” he breathes.

Smiling with satisfaction, Monica shrugs off the other shoulder strap. The top of the dress falls away from her body, the garment collapsing into a pile of shiny material and stiff lace around her calves. Gilfoyle takes her hand as she steps out of it. She’s wearing comfortable underwear rather than lingerie because she hadn’t planned to let anyone see it, let alone Gilfoyle. But he doesn’t seem to mind; he pulls her close and gives her a soft kiss on the mouth.

Monica lets him push her back against the desk. His hands run up her back to the clasp of her bra. He fiddles with it for a moment, his fingers brushing her skin, then gives her a sheepish look.

“I _have_ done this before,” he assures her gruffly.

“Your girlfriend needs to train you better,” says Monica with amusement.

“Ah, see.” He smirks triumphantly as her bra finally comes undone. “Just needed to apply some perseverance.”

She chuckles and lets him slide the bra off slowly, but before he has time to ogle her for too long, she starts to roll his T-shirt up. His skin is warm and has the softness of a life spent indoors, coarsened only by wiry dark hairs across his belly and chest. Monica pushes the cotton shirt up to his armpits, and he takes over, crossing his arms to pull it off.

They kiss again, chest to chest, Monica’s arms around his neck and Gilfoyle’s arms around her waist. The kiss is great, and Monica grabs Gilfoyle’s ass through his sweatpants.

“Good thing I brought some condoms,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Oh, you did, did you?” Monica wonders if he’d planned this, and if so, at what point. The thought doesn’t displease her. “Because weddings are such a great place to get laid?”

“Best to be ready, just in case an opportunity arises.” He smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hmm,” she purrs with pleasure as he kisses her neck. “So it's nothing personal you've ever thought of before. Just an ‘opportunity?’” 

He straightens up enough to give her a rueful smile. “Okay. Maybe I thought about this before. And maybe that's why I brought the condoms.”

“I have some in my purse too,” she admits. She runs her hand through his long hair—to his obvious pleasure—and then pushes his head down. “But you’ll have to wait just a little longer to use them. Gotta earn it first.”

Gilfoyle chuckles and gives her a quick kiss before leaning down to press his lips to her chest. He turns his head to rub his beard against her breasts, which is both weird and disturbingly erotic. Monica arches her back and hums appreciatively as he continues down her stomach.

He’s right, she thinks. Weddings really are a great opportunity to get laid.


	7. Chapter 7

A pale wintry sun is streaming around the hotel room curtains when Monica wakes up the next morning. Gilfoyle is sitting up in bed beside her, typing rapidly on his laptop, his expression serious. Monica pulls herself up on one arm to look at the screen; it’s all multicolored code on a dark background, as usual.

“Hey,” he says by way of greeting. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Monica squints at the time in the upper right-hand corner of his screen. “It’s okay. Time I woke up anyway.”

Gilfoyle grunts neutrally, his eyes on the screen. He’s still naked, only his lower half covered by the sheets and his laptop. Monica watches him run the tests on whatever he’s doing, the bottom window on his screen filling with text. She reaches under the covers and strokes his hairy thigh. He doesn’t say anything, but he moves the laptop a bit further up his stomach. Monica takes the hint and moves her hand a little higher.

“This has got to be every nerd’s hottest fantasy,” says Monica, amused that he’s still frowning and typing code on his laptop, despite her hand moving under the covers.

He types something, but his lips twitch into a smile and he glances at her. “It does combine two of my favorite things,” he admits.

He presses a key combination that makes the laptop whirr. Running tests again, maybe; about the only thing Monica knows about programming is that it involves running tests a lot. He looks down at Monica lying naked under the covers and exhales sharply as her hand speeds up.

“When is our flight: 1:30 p.m.?” He glances at the time on his laptop. “That gives us four and a half hours to get to the airport. If we get the same Uber driver as last time, maybe we should leave now.”

Monica chuckles and gets her phone. “I’ll book an Uber for 11:00. The airport will be easier to find in the daylight than this hotel was at night. I guess I should book one at the other end too.”

“No need. I texted Dinesh. He got back from Pakistan last night so he’ll pick us up. It’ll be good practice for his future career as an Uber driver.”

“I don’t know what he’s done to deserve a friend like you,” says Monica, shaking her head.

“Have you met Dinesh?” he asks with undisguised amusement. He rubs her shoulder gently. “So we have a little time to kill. One for the road?”

* * *

Their journey back to California is uneventful. They make out a little on the plane, and Monica spends most of the flight leaning on Gilfoyle’s shoulder. As they near San Francisco, though, Monica remembers that Dinesh will be picking them up, and after that, it will be straight back into the usual Pied Piper routine. She straightens up and checks her appearance in her hand mirror.

“Yeah, you’re still hot,” comments Gilfoyle with amusement, looking up from his book. “If we play it cool, he’ll be none the wiser.”

“No, it’s not—” she starts, except it is that.

“But if you ever want to do this again, I’m game,” he continues. “Tara won’t mind.”

“Oh well, if your girlfriend won’t mind, I’ll totally let you know when I want another dirty weekend.”

“Hmm. I’ll take you to a death metal festival next time. We can fuck in the Volvo.”

Monica chuckles at that ludicrous idea. 

The captain announces their arrival at SFO. As they have no baggage to reclaim, they’re among the first to reach the Arrivals lounge. Just before they go through the exit doors, though, Monica stops. On impulse, she grabs Gilfoyle’s hand. Without hesitation, he slips one arm around her waist and leans in to kiss her.

They hold each other while other travelers walk by, just enjoying a moment more of the sensual little bubble they created overnight.

Then, reluctantly, they let go and walk through into Arrivals. Dinesh is standing directly opposite the doors, in a small crowd of people holding name cards.

“I was hoping you’d have a card,” says Gilfoyle.

“What, ‘Uber for Monica and “Kurt?”’” asks Dinesh with a smirk.

He takes Monica’s bag and then automatically takes Gilfoyle’s plastic bag when the man holds it out. He looks at Monica and then at the still glasses-free Gilfoyle.

“Guess it’s true what they say about weddings being a great place to get laid,” says Dinesh in a slightly higher voice than usual. “You wouldn’t believe it’s true of traditional Muslim weddings too, but I met this hot anesthetist from Bradford at my cousin’s wedding last week. Works for the NHS in the UK. We had a great time. And she’s not planning to ever move to the US because we apparently have shit health coverage here!”

“Hell forbid you should have to make a commitment, Dinesh,” says Gilfoyle.

“Also, wait, what do you mean, ‘it’s true what they say about weddings being a great place to get laid?’” asks Monica. She glares at Gilfoyle. “Did you _tell_ him?”

“Oh, uh, no, he didn’t,” says Dinesh as Gilfoyle shakes his head vehemently. “It’s just, um—”

He points at the Arrivals doors which opens just at that moment to reveal the spot where Monica and Gilfoyle had their goodbye kiss.

“Oh,” says Gilfoyle neutrally.

* * *

“So did you have to call him Kurt the whole time, Monica?” asks Dinesh as he opens his Tesla in the carpark. “Maybe I should call you Kurt from now on, Gilfoyle. Sounds a bit like Bert, which is your name anyway.”

“Monica can call me anything she likes,” says Gilfoyle, pulling Monica into the back seat with him. He smiles evilly. “ _You_ can call me Snake.”

“Yeah, fuck you too, Gilfoyle.”

Monica lets Gilfoyle hold her hand and smiles happily as they drive through the warm, snow-free streets towards Palo Alto.

**Author's Note:**

> “[Menstruatin’ with Satan](https://friendlyatheist.patheos.com/2019/11/08/menstruatin-with-satan-fundraising-drive-now-taking-place-in-san-antonio/)” is a real thing.
> 
> “Call me Snake” is a suggestion by janet-snakeholemacklin on Tumblr. I haven’t actually seen Escape From New York. (I picked “Kurt” completely by chance because the name sounds like “Bert” and Kurt Russel was the first Kurt that came to mind.)
> 
> ❤️ to sweatleaf and janet-snakeholemacklin for checking this over!


End file.
